


Cold Flat & Spilt Tea

by harrysbun



Category: One Direction
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, M/M, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrysbun/pseuds/harrysbun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another one where Louis' boyfriend hits him and Harry is smitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten a lot of requests to do another one of these, so here it is. I am trying very hard to make this one better. Feedback would be ace .xx
> 
> (also I'm reuploading this as just one chapter for now and will continue to write for it.... if anyone still cares, sorry I've been dead)

It's a really good thing that London is always chilly enough to make it appropriate to wear a jumper round everywhere and that Louis sat round and saw how Lottie applied makeup and turned into a completely different person from it. It really is good. 

 

The leaves are crunching beneath Louis feet, signalling the beginning start of fall as he walks across campus toward the library, where he always goes before classes in the morning. It's always empty and quiet and warm and everything Louis needs in order to gather himself and prepare for the days ahead. 

He never reads any books or does any work, he just sits. Sits and stirs his black tea and thinks. He's sure people look at him funny and may even talk about the strange boy who just sits and looks at his drink, always bunched up in jumpers and layers on top of layers. No one ever asks why he's there or if he's a bit too warm in all those layers and Louis doesn't mind. He really doesn't.   
He's not really sure how he would answer any of those questions or even if _he_ would allow it.  
So he just sits. 

 

It's the start of his last year at uni and this is where it really starts to matter for him. He wants to paint. He wants to paint something that matters and he wants to be able to have one of his paintings hung in a museum somewhere. 

He knows he's absolutely bonkers, knows that he'll never get anywhere near where he wants to be because- well that's what he's been told. He'll be alright with any job that has to do with art. Hell, he'll even be a primary school art teacher, he doesn't care. He'll graffiti the streets of downtown London, as long as he can paint. 

It's all he has- all he can do with himself that won't upset _him_ , that won't cause talk about why he's always so covered up or why he acts the way he does.

It's all he's good at- even if _he_ says he's shite at it. 

 

His flat is always cold. Always so, so cold. He never takes his jumpers off, only when _he_ makes him. And even then he cries. He cries so hard because he hates it, he hates the cold. It's always so cold- he's always so cold and he hates it. And it doesn't help that Louis can see it- can see all that he tries to cover up with his humongous jumpers and layers of clothing.

He just hates it. 

 

Louis always stays after class to sit and sketch. He never has any other spare time and can never get in his own thoughts with trying to keep up with the required criteria in the class to pass. The professor doesn't mind; just smiles kindly at him like she knows. Louis is sure she doesn't- no one does, but thanks her anyways.

His dainty hands have never been good at catching a ball or swinging a club and his little legs have never been good at running long distances or even walking up steps. _He_ always tells Louis that he has to get in better shape.

Louis' dainty hands have always been good at capturing something and copying it down on a sheet of paper; getting the full details in depth. It's just what he does, all he can think of doing. It used to be just for fun, just little sketches on the corners of his homework assignments that would result in his maths teacher giving him looks every time he turned in a doodle-filled paper. 

But that was back when everything was for fun; when he had nothing to fear. When he painted just because he wanted to paint; not because he had no other way to express himself.

That's not what he wanted his art to become. 

 

Louis is crying when he enters the library on a day where the windows are just starting to frost and his cheeks seem to always be a bit more pink. He tries to conceal it when he sees a boy sitting across the room, nose buried in a book. Louis knows he won't even be able to see him from all the way over there, but he can't risk it. He can't risk drawing the attention to himself.

So he sits in his usual spot, tea-less this time because it's all down the front of his favourite jumper. The memory makes him sniffle. He tries to ignore how much it hurts all over, how much he wishes he didn't stay late in the studio and got enough sleep to wake up in time to make _him_ breakfast this morning. It's all his fault, he knows. But he wishes it didn't hurt this much. And that he had his tea still.

Suddenly, a voice hits Louis like a ton of bricks. He flinches, like he always does when someone speaks to him or even gets near him. He almost forgets that someone even spoke to him because- well no one ever does. He's repulsing.

"What?" Louis says aloud, not really meaning to say it but it slips anyways. He knows he shouldn't talk to anyone.

"I asked if you were alright," the voice says (apparently) again.

Louis blinks once, twice, three times and then looks up because- what? It's the boy he saw when he walked in, the same exact book that was in his nose now clutched tightly in his large hand. He's in layers as well, Louis notices, but not nearly as much as he does; just simple a tee shirt, flannel and a coat. 

He doesn't dare look up at the boy's face, knowing that he'd just be disgusted and probably run off and tell some of his friends about the strange kid who sat and cried in the library this morning.

 

"Yeah," Louis finally says and looks back down and his chewed off thumbnails and bitten at skin.

"You sure, mate? You don't look that alright," he says, chuckling a little bit. Louis suddenly starts crying again because he's laughing at him. Of course he is. Anyone would.

"Can you just go," is al Louis can muster before he's full on crying, full on humiliating himself in front of a stranger and full on drawing so much attention to himself that he knows he'll be even more sore tomorrow for it.

The boy says something else but Louis is crying too hard to hear it and only looks up when the boy is half out the door.

 

Louis misses the next two days of classes, even though he knows he shouldn't. He knows that this last year is so very important that he can't afford to miss any days. But, he does anyways because a black eye and a busted lip and a bruised neck is sure to cause a bit _too_ much attention than is needed. And no, he can't have that.

The flat is empty as Louis hurries to get ready for the day sliding on his old, dingy jumper that he's had for forever and some tight, soft trackies that make him feel oh so lovely during this cold weather. He even applies a bit of makeup he's stolen from Lots to cover up the dark bruising littering his cheekbones. Hopefully it doesn't rain today.

Louis gives his little kitty a look on his way out the door because he knows that she's seen exactly what it is that goes on behind his closed doors.

 

Louis' in the library after his classes, actually doing his homework because there's no way he can get anything done in his cold flat. It's too cold and he can never get warm, no matter how many blankets he has over his body or how much hot tea he drinks. Nothing helps it.

It's not a lot, just some sketches and a bit of literature because he just loves to take lit classes, even if it has nothing to do with what his major is. He hopes to minor in literature if this whole art thing doesn't work out- just like _he_ said it wouldn't.

A loud screech interrupts his pencil-work and he almost wants to tell the person off because, libraries are supposed to be quiet! But, when he looks up, carefully (because he always has to be careful), he sees a very pretty boy settling down into the table ahead of him. He's not looking towards Louis because- well why would he? 

But he is digging around in his bag and eventually comes up with a tattered old book that has rips in the spine and scrawl all over the brown leather of if. He knows it's not a library book, and definitely knows it's not really a reading book at all when the pretty boy takes a pen out of his bag and takes the cap off with his teeth, chewing the plastic between his beautiful teeth as he begins to write in it.

Louis doesn't even realise he's staring until the pretty boy looks up and his brilliant eyes meet Louis' dull ones. He flushes and immediately looks back down at his sketches, mind completely blank as to what to add to his sketches now that his thoughts are still preoccupied with the boy.

He knows it's wrong, he even feels s little scared. Scared as if _he_ could read his mind as soon as he walks in the door of the flat and do something to Louis that he knows will hurt very, very much. So that's why his heart beats a little faster, and why his foot tabs against the floor, and why he has the sudden urge to cry again.

He swallows the lump in his throat and focuses on drawing something that will get him somewhere with his life, away from here and to keep his mind away from the beautiful boy with brilliant eyes.

 

Louis used to love winter as a boy. He would always love to have his mum dress him up so warm and snug in his tiny little snow boots and tiny little snow coats. There is, in fact, many pictures of Louis and his two eldest sisters outside building snowmen per Louis' request. It was always him who stayed out the longest and perfected them, though. His obsessively creative way left no breathing room for the sisters to have any say in what the snowmen turned out to be, so they eventually scurried inside, sighing in relief as the snow melted off their coats as soon as they entered the warmth. 

Louis was always out though, even as he grew older. He used to love the cold.

Now though, it's like he can't escape it- and it's so frustrating that he hates it. He hates being cold, he hates that he has to wear his jumpers everywhere (even though he used to love them as well) and he hates that _he_ never cuddles Louis when he's freezing his toes off. He never lets Louis touch him- always saying he's too cold and doesn't want to get anywhere near him to warm him up.

 _He_ tells Louis that he's disgusting.

 

There's a sign on the doors of the library saying that the heater is out and Louis almost wants to cry. Louis almost always wants to cry these days. He sighs, carries on in anyways and shivers just a little bit when he feels cold air hit his cheeks.

This time, he searches- looking for the pretty boy with brilliant eyes. He can't be blindsided again by his presence and he refuses to look as flustered as he did the last time if he has to. That's just embarrassing. (He'd also be lying if he said he didn't spend two days sketching out brilliant jade eyes over and over again.)

He's in the back, where Louis was a few days ago when Louis first saw him, so he makes it his duty to sit as far away from him as possible. Although the boy is pretty, probably the prettiest boy he's ever seen (but he'll never admit that), he can't be near him. It's too risky. And Louis' got enough bruising to last him a lifetime at the moment.

He dumps his bag out on the table, reaching out and grabbing his lit book- some flimsy little novel that he could probably finish in a couple days but never has the time to do so. It's something by a classic American author, he can never remember the name and never bothers to look but finds himself enjoying it anyways as he jots down notes in a practiced scrawl.

As he reads, he can absentmindedly feel his hand gripping the pencil and swirling it round the edge of the lined notebook paper. He knows if he continues, he's going to turn the whole right side margin into a doodle-y mess that is going to make it impossible to understand his notes. 

He stops with a sigh and puts both the pencil and book down, looking down at the grey, shiny patterns of lines and circles and some flowers litter his paper.

"That looks pretty sick," someone suddenly says to Louis. It takes a moment to process, like it always does when someone speaks to him, but it hits him eventually. He feels anxiety just sky-rocket throughout his body because one, someone is talking to him; and two, the pretty boy from across the room is no longer across the room.

"Thanks," Louis mutters, his voice scratchy because he can't remember the last time he spoke aloud. Maybe a few nights ago, to his cat. He brings his eraser to the lead, quickly erasing and accidentally ripping the paper. He feels tears well up.

"You shouldn't erase it," the boy says. "Are you an art major? I saw you the other day, drawing in a notebook."

Louis suddenly wants to cry harder because it's the pretty boy. The pretty boy is here and speaking to him and he's wearing a ripped jumper and has makeup on to cover his hideous bruises. He gathers his things, not answering.

"I'm an english major," the boy offers, almost as if it was a question, just to see if it would help start up the conversation. It doesn't, and Louis is shaking so hard it takes a lot of effort to be able to get his items into his bag.

"Hey," he says softly, almost like a coo. It's soothing and Louis pauses for a fraction of a second before he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Louis' chair goes falling back, ankles getting twisted along in it that he tumbles down as well. He lands on his side, and suddenly it's hard to breath. He can't get enough oxygen into his lungs and it hurts. It hurts so bad that he scrambles up from the floor, crying and clutching his bag and his side as he tries for another inhale of air while stumbling out into the cold winter.

 

The tattered sketchbook has been sitting on Harry's bedside table in his small little dorm room for nearly thirty-six hours. He knows he should return it; go and find the sad boy who sits in the library when he could be at home sleeping. He also knows that he shouldn't have looked through it.

But it was just so tempting to him. The boy is so captivating.

Harry's always been used to being able to converse with almost anyone. He just has that thing about him and his persona that people just find him likeable.

But the boy, he doesn't even look at him.

So it was something strange for Harry to have the boy run out and accidentally leave his sketchbook on the table. He ran after him too, flaying the book around and calling for him but he was way out of sight by the time Harry was able to comprehend the situation.

And it's not really that he meant to look. It was all Zayn's fault. He thought it was his and started to flip through the pages before Harry could tell him otherwise. So, he blames Zayn and is sticking to that, even if it was him who went through the beautiful sketches. He had no idea that one person could be so talented. 

Of course Zayn is very talented as well, but this boy has a completely different style; a very abstract, beautiful style. His favourite has to be the several of incredibly detailed eyes.

He's not sure why, but they really do something to him. 

 

"Maybe you should give it back," Zayn says on one of his rare visits to the dorm that he and Harry share as he sifts through some clothes and shoves them in a bag, probably to take over to Liam's for the week.

"Huh?" Harry responds from his double bed, pen inking all over his journal.

"That," he nods over to the open sketchbook.

"Oh," Harry frowns. He doesn't even know who the boy is and he hasn't been back to the library in almost a week.

"It's a little weird mate, if in being honest. What's the kid's name?" he asks, snatching the book up. Harry immediately sits up, defensive.

"Don't know. Don't crinkle the pages!" he goes to grab it but Zayn's too quick. Damn him.

"Tomlinson," Zayn reads, eyes squinting to read the small letters embroidered in the back. Harry didn't even think to look for a name.

"Odd name," he huffs in annoyance at Zayn.

"It's a surname, genius."

Harry rolls his eyes.

"Louis," Zayn says with a sigh, apparently happy to being able to read such small lettering. "I know him, he's in my ceramics and major class."

"And you're barely telling me?" Harry wants to punch him, he comes round once a week and has had the resolution the whole time.

"You didn't tell me the mystery guy was Louis," he shrugs. "I could give it to him, if you want." He goes to shove the book into his bag, but Harry immediately grabs his wrist, telling himself he would just wrinkle and ruin it in there.

"No, I'll do it," he says, grabbing the book from his hand. Zayn gives him a look.

"Got a bit of crush, mate?"

"Don't know what you're going on about," Harry insists.

"Mhm. Okay. Well he's got a boyfriend anyways, I think. He sometimes picks him up after classes or when he stays after."

"Oh." Harry tries to hide whatever it is in his voice.

"Good looking bloke, he is," Zayn sighs. "But good luck."

Harry just watches as Zayn gathers up useless things and is actually almost out the door before Harry remembers.

"Zayn!"

Zayn groans and turns around.

"He stays late after his last class usually, across campus. Now goodbye, Harry."

His annoyance is evident but Harry couldn't be more excited.

 

Louis never feels warmer than when he is able to work on his art; whether that be painting or sketching or sculpting or anything of the sort. He almost might be positive that if he were able to do it at home, he wouldn't be so cold there. Almost.

But he can't, so staying after his class and using the studio is as close as he can get. Hopefully he can get his own one day. With a heater.

He's got some things to catch up on, having missed the last three days. He's lucky the professor likes him and actually knows his name enough to allow him to use the studio for whatever he needs to do. Which isn't a lot but he likes to take his time anyways, loving any excuse he can to stay out of the cold flat. That is until he has to be home to make dinner in time.

The only thing difficult for him at the moment is his lack of sketchbook. He has nothing to go off of, only his brain. Yeah he's good at that, but not nearly as good as he is as planning ahead and sketching it down and using it as a reference for his final projects. 

He'll manage, he knows. There's no use crying over spilled milk, he's sure he left it somewhere in his bedroom. Maybe even the bathroom, who knows.

He doesn't allow himself to think about the pretty boy in the library anymore, the last three days being practice for him. He embarrassed himself beyond belief and he plans to avoid him at any costs for as long as he lives. 

 

It's starting to lightly snow as Harry walks across campus, the ice landing on his coat and melting away into water almost immediately. He's really not sure where exactly the art studio is, but he walks anyways, clutching his bag where he knows the sketchbook is safely tucked in. 

Zayn didn't give specifics, too annoyed with Harry to do so, so Harry is just going and hoping for the best, really wanting to see the boy that has been disrupting his mindset for who remembers how long. Too long, he thinks. Way too long.

He has to ask someone where it is, he knows he has to, so he does it with ease, stopping some girl with books up to her nose and a mess of hair atop her head. She's rather pretty and blushes as Harry talks to her. If it were any other time, he knows he'd ask for her number, but right now he has to return a book.

He gives her a wink, just for the hell of it, and walks in the direction of where she pointed.

The corridor of the building Harry was directed to is a bit spooky if he's honest. There's these wild drawings hanging from the walls and the lights are purposely hung to shine into the drawings, leaving little light to the actual corridor. 

He can't help but look at the paintings, feeling a bit envious because he's never been the artistically creative one. He passed his Fundamentals of Arts class with a D, his lowest grade ever. He, unfortunately, was just not blessed with it. That's why he finds the sketchbook so interesting. It's just sketches but even like that they're beautiful to him. If the leaded version looks so beautiful on the sheets of paper, then he wonders what Louis could create on a large canvas with beautiful colours.

He skids to a stop suddenly, his boots squeaking along the tile as he reaches the only open door in the corridor. He peeks in, a bit frightened if he's being honest because this is just _not_ his domain. His long, bony fingers that are meant to only scrawl onto paper are not cut out for the precision that is art. He knows it, and he knows for damn sure that any art major will know it.

The boy-Louis, is sitting on a stool with his exposed ankles crossed as they rest on the steel bar beneath the stool. His jumper (that he always seems to wear) sleeves are barely folded to show his small little wrists and the white apron over his clothing is covered in different colours all mixed and all over the place. He doesn't see Harry, only stares toward an easel with a brush in hand and tongue poking out between his lips.

Harry knows it's weird to be staring, but he doesn't think that he's ever seen Louis not crying. There's never been a moment, in his month of unknowingly seeing him in the library that the boy isn't crying or does not have tear stains on his cheeks.

But right now, he's impassive; there's no expression on his face (maybe some concentration but it's so subtle that Harry isn't even sure if it could be qualified as it). It's strange, yes but Harry can't look away.

Not even when his boot slips and he is staring into a pair of beautiful, bright blue eyes.

 

Louis almost wants to roll his eyes because- really? But then, he remembers that he's not that brave; so he blushes as he makes eye contact with the pretty boy with the very pretty eyes, once again.

"You're Louis, right?" he asks, deep voice rumbling throughout the empty studio. Louis nods meekly because- well he can't really do anything else; last time he saw this pretty boy, he fell over onto the floor because he barely touched him. 

He can't be any more embarrassed, so he might as well not embarrass himself more by talking and possibly messing up on his words and make the pretty boy think that he's so incredibly stupid that he can't even conjure up correct sentences.

"Hi. 'M Harry and I- uh, I have-" he reaches into his bag with one hand, still smiling warily at Louis as he searches blindly in his bag for the sketchbook.

He gets it out- finally- and then huffs out a breath of relief.

"You left this- you know, at the library a while ago," Harry says, feeling a bit embarrassed _for_ Louis as he remembers the last time they did interact.

He holds it out, expecting Louis to take it right away, but he doesn't. Louis can't really seem to move.

He knew he left it somewhere, knew that he had lost it. He just never really thought that it was _there_ of all places. And with the pretty boy! 

He can't even imagine what he would be thinking if he so happened to flick through the pages of the very obvious drawing of his eyes.

It's also barely now that Louis is noticing the rest of the pretty boy- Harry's, face. He really doesn't think that "pretty" doesn't justify just how pretty he really is. He's gorgeous, really. The most beautiful person Louis has ever seen.

"I didn't look through it," Harry lies quickly, wanting Louis to at least _look_ like he has just heard anything Harry's just said. He knows it's bad to lie to him, but he still feels incredibly bad about looking through it. He can't imagine what it would be like to have some stranger read his journal.

The words take a moment to process, but when they do, Louis _finally_ reacts.

"I wasn't assuming you did," he says quietly. It's the first time Harry really hears a proper, nice sentence from him, and he's really not sure how to feel about it.

"Oh. Okay, good," he clears his throat. "Zayn told me that you stay round here. You know Zayn right? Zayn Malik, nice cheekbones, perfect hair, loads of tattoos-"

"Yeah, I know him," Louis interrupts, stepping forward a bit. It's Harry's turn to blush.

"Of course you do," he says quickly, flustered for some odd reason. "Just- here." 

He shakes the book a bit, to bring it to Louis' attention again. Louis blinks.

"Thanks," he says and closes the last bit of distance between he and Harry as he grabs the book, holding it close to his body as if to protect it.

"You're welcome," Harry gives him a gentle smile. "Just figured you might want it back."

"Thanks," Louis says again because he doesn't really know what else to say. It's been ages since he's talked to anyone. He can't even remember.

Louis turns around, setting the book down onto a table beside his easel and sits down again on the stool, expecting Harry to have left a long time ago. It's only when he picks up a brush that he hears a cough.

It, of course, makes him wince.

"Do you- like, do you draw a lot?" Harry asks, his voice getting a lot closer than it was before. Louis looks over at him, confused.

"Do I... _draw_ a lot?" He almost wants to laugh, and it's been a long time since he's wanted to laugh.

"Yeah like, Zayn- he... he just sits and draws for hours on end sometimes. Do you, like- do that, too?"

Harry seems flustered and it's almost endearing.

"Zayn's a sculptor major," Louis says, putting his brush down. "It takes a lot more... thought and precision to, you know- do that. I just... I don't know what I do."

It's the most he's said in God knows how long. And it's strange to him that he can talk to this stranger, but he seems to be able to and he's really not in the place to deny a normal conversation.

"You sketch. And you paint, obviously," Harry nods over to the easel. "I'm sorry, do you guys not refer to it as drawing? Is that just the term I learned in secondary school?"

Louis almost smiles.

"No, it's the correct terminology, I suppose. But... I don't know. 'S just strange to hear."

"Don't make fun at the lad who doesn't know a thing about art," Harry attempts to start a banter but the look on Louis' face makes him regret it instantly.

"I-I wasn't. I promise, I wasn't... I was just-"

"I was kidding, Louis," Harry assures him quickly, not really understanding why he freaked out so badly, but that's beside the point. 

"Oh," his face falls even more and Harry feels incredibly bad for doing whatever it is that he did.

It's silent for a few moments, and Harry's not really sure what to do. His eyes travel involuntarily to Louis who is staring down at his fingers, twirling them around a bit. 

It's barely now that he really sees how beautiful he is; yes he noticed before but apparently that lighting before didn't do much justice to him. He's just beautiful.

His eyes flick to the easel as soon as Louis catches him staring.

"You're, uh... very talented, Louis," he says, nodding toward the very articulate drawing of some sort of constellation of stars, that just seem to apparently need any type of touch up.

Louis scoffs very quietly, almost as if he doesn't believe it.

"Thanks," he says, just to be polite. 

"Did it take you long to work on it?" Harry asks, to make more conversation because it really doesn't seem like Louis will be the one to do it.

"This? No... not long, it's shite anyways, more of just a on-the-whim type thing."

He suddenly feels very self-conscious about it and takes the canvas off the easel and makes quick work of setting out to dry, away from Harry's view.

"That's sick, mate," Harry says, truthfully. "Wish I had that sort of talent." He says it because it is true, and also because he really just wants to see this beautiful boy smile.

It doesn't work, but he blushes and turns away, which is something Harry has gotten quite fond of in these short moments of conversing with him.

"Thanks," he says, once again. Really, could he be any more antisocial?

"Is there a reason you speak to me like I'm some garbage that's been dumped onto your doorstep?" Harry chuckles because honestly. He knows he's ugly but he can't be that ugly.

Louis immediately reacts.

"I'm sorry, it's not that, I swear!"

His actions almost seemed frightened, like he's done something wrong. Harry doesn't get it. No one does.

"Then what is it?" he questions, because he really just does want to know.

And Louis really does ponder it for a second because... well what is it? Maybe it's that his boyfriend beats him every night he gets home. Maybe it's that he has no one to speak to. Maybe it's that he frightened of any and all men because all men hit. 

All men are abusive and frightening and he's not quite sure how to act around this one; what makes him tick, what would make his flip switch and start attacking Louis, like he's so used to.

"You wouldn't understand," Louis whispers, almost so silently that if any other noise had happened at the same time, Harry would not have heard.

"I'm a really good listener, you know," he offers.

Louis looks up at the gentle tone and their eyes meet once again, and louis is again so dazzled by the eyes and pretty face. But he's not dumb. He knows what all men are like, and just because this one is pretty doesn't make any difference.

His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he immediately knows.

He packs his things quickly, avoiding Harry and heads toward the door, not looking back when the pretty boy calls his name.

 

When Louis was fourteen, his parents got a divorce and his dad left, not bothering to say goodbye and has never helped his mum out financially. He had to work so hard and apply for so many grants and scholarships and gather up all the chump change he could just to get out of his small town and go to uni in the city. 

He knew he had to do something with his life, knew he had to make money and help his mum out and buy his sisters new clothes. Sure he's sad that he left home, but he hopes he'll be back one day to help.

Louis knows that his mum will never say it, but the divorce was his fault. He came out to his parents his last year in primary school and that's when it all started. He's sure that he deep down knew about Louis' sexuality; it seems like everyone- deep down, knew. So he really can't grasp why he acted the way that he did.

Louis still shudders at the violent memories of his first year in secondary school.

He met _him_ his second year, just after his dad left and he was still finding anyway to inflict harm on himself because- well, that's all his dad told him he deserved. Harm. He was the most beautiful person Louis had ever seen, then. He never would have thought that he could ever meet anyone who was more beautiful than him.

It was nice for a while; he was the happiest he ever has been in his whole life for a good two and a half years. He stopped hurting himself, stopped worrying about if his dad would call on his birthday or come over for supper on Christmas.

 _He_ made him forget; and he was so in love.

He even looked at schools (especially) in London because that's where he wanted to come to pursue his career in acting, and Louis would have done anything to be with him and keep him happy. So he told his mum he'd be back for her and his sisters and was off, the happiest he's ever been and ready to start his life with his perfect boyfriend.

That was nearly three and a half years ago.

The first time he hit Louis was halfway through his first year in uni and he had cried and held Louis close and kissed and cuddled him and promised it would never ever happen again.  
And Louis believed him. 

Toward the end of his second year in uni, Louis had gone back to hurting himself. He couldn't think of anything to take away the physical pain that he was going through, and for some reason, inflicting pain on himself seemed to be the only way.

 _He_ always saw the things Louis did to himself, but he never said anything, just held tightly onto Louis' wrists and dug his thumbs into the vertical lines whenever he got the chance to. 

During his fourth month in his third year in uni, Louis was found on the bathroom floor by the neighbour- Liam, who always asked to borrow some sugar. _He_ was out of the city, went back into town because his sister had gone into labour and he had left Louis for a good week and a half.

He tells himself that he hadn't meant to go that deep, that it was just an accident and a misjudgment of how sharp it was.

That's just what he tells himself.

Harry tells himself that he doesn't wait up for Louis in the libraries, or hang around outside the studio on campus. He really does. He even ignores Zayn when he gives him funny looks or scoffs at him as he leaves Harry be.

He just doesn't see why it's fair to him. Now, he doesn't mean to be self absorbed, he really doesn't. But he just doesn't see why Louis doesn't like him. And Harry isn't that thick to not see that, okay. Maybe there's a reason, a hidden secret of the sort that Louis has to himself. 

But it doesn't change Harry's mind that he should at least get a chance to know why Louis doesn't like him.

Zayn tells him that he isn't the only one Louis is like that to, he even told him that there really isn't anyone he's ever seen Louis socialize with besides their professors. Harrys never really listened to much of what Zayn's had to say anyways, though.

 

It's not until a couple weeks later that Harry finally sees Louis. It's through a frosty window in the library, and Harry can't help but think that even through the cloudy glass, he's still beautiful.

When he walks into the library, he shivers a little bit and removes the scarf around his neck as he maneuvers around crowded tables to an empty one farthest from Harry. He doesn't take offense, considering Louis hasn't seen him yet.

Harry watches as he sets his drink down on the table and cautiously reaches in his bag and pulls out the familiar sketchbook that laid atop Harry's bedside table a while back. He knows it's rude to stare, but he can't really think of much else to do. He's waited weeks to see him and now that he finally has, he's frozen to his chair, staring dumbly at Louis.

So, he calls Zayn.

"Zayn, he's here," he whispers, as if Louis is close enough to hear him.

"Who'sit-?" Zayn slurs, obviously just waking from his slumber.

"Louis," Harry tells him, a little bit annoyed.

"Harry- my God. Just go say _hi_ , for Christ's sake." And then the line is dead and Harry is immediately aware of his need and want of a new best friend.

Harry slumps in his chair, huffing a bit. He's never had this problem of someone not liking him, and definitely not of him caring so much about said person. Maybe it's just because it's _Louis_. He's not even really sure who Louis is but he would kill to find out.

He's not really sure when his legs started working and walked their way toward the table Louis is at, but when he finally does come to his senses, he's looking at the back of Louis' head.

From past experiences with Louis, Harry has learned that shock doesn't do him well; so, he carefully walks around the table and softly taps at the corner of it, making Louis instantly shoot up in response, wide eyes immediately searching for something and seeming to relax, just a tiny, tiny bit when he sees Harry. But not enough to make any of them less tense.

Louis can feel his pen bleed through the page of his sketchbook when he leaves it to linger a bit too long on the paper as he stares up at the beautiful man standing in front of him, a shy smile taking up his features. Louis is sure he must be expecting a greeting from him, hell, it'd be the correct thing to do at the moment but he really can't get the words out.

"Hey, Louis," Harry finally says, voice cautious and careful as he slowly moves to a chair farthest from Louis and sits, just at the very edge of the seat. Harry can see Louis tense a little more, his grip on his pen getting harsher and can feel his leg bouncing up and down underneath the table. 

"I haven't seen you around, mate. Where've you been?" Harry offers, really hoping to get a conversation going. Louis leg stops moving and he drops his pen, a huff of breath leaving his chapped lips. His eyebrows scrunch together, pondering something quite hard for a moment. 

Harry was almost about to sigh and say goodbye, apologize for bothering him. 

"Hey," Louis finally says, disregarding Harry's last question, but that doesn't bother Harry because there's a slight smile tugging at the corner of Louis' lips. And it makes Harry's stomach flip. 

"Hi," Harry says again, smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been so long since he's _had_ to talk to someone, that Louis forgets that he is supposed to reply. He stares blankly at the boy sitting in front of him, unsure of what is next and why he has even approached him. It's not until Harry clears his throat and blinks expectedly at Louis that he remembers just a small amount of manners. 

"Hi," he says again, feeling his ears heat from the impending embarrassment coming when he sees Harry trying to stifle a smile. 

"How are you?" Harry asks, seemingly to be genuinely interested. 

Louis just looks confusedly at him. What a strange question. 

"Fine," he shrugs. He isn't really comprehending the situation; still waiting for Harry to yell at him for something that he's not sure of what he did, though he's almost certain he must have done. Because why else would he be here?

"I just wanted to come over here," Harry begins, carefully. "See how you are. Maybe ask about your art?" 

Harry smiles so gently at Louis that he almost forgets to listen to what he's saying. No one has smiled at him like that in a long time. 

Just as Louis gains the courage to say something back, Harry sighs. 

"You know what, I'll just leave you alone," he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, keeping the same smile on his face though Louis can tell it's not reaching his eyes. "I'm sorry for bothering you again."

And then he's off, just as quickly as he came and Louis just wants to cry. Just as he thought maybe he could have a friend. Someone that has bothered to talk to him, even after he's embarrassed himself time and time again in his presence. And Louis just had to ruin everything, like he always does. 

 

It's been two weeks since Harry gave up, and he's pretty sure he hasn't left his bed for longer than five hours at a time since then. He's dodged Zayn's half-arsed attempts at getting him to go out and offers of company and he's telling himself it's just because he's not feeling it. Not because he's still upset over his failed attempt at a friendship with Louis. 

Definitely not that. 

The lighting is suddenly too bright in Harry's dorm and he's ready to just let it be until his duvet is being pulled away from his naked body. 

"Get the fuck up," Harry hears, and he wishes nothing more than to go back to sleep, and maybe punch Zayn in the face. Just once. 

He feels his weight on his back and hears an unfamiliar chuckle in the background, causing one of his eyes to peek open. He's met with a blurry figure standing by Zayn's bed, which he's assuming is Liam. He shuts his eyes again and is fully prepared to ignore both of them. 

"Zayn, 'm naked," Harry grumbles, hoping to maybe convince Zayn to cover him back up for the sake of his boyfriend's eyes. 

"Not like Liam's never seen an arse before," he can feel Zayn shrug from where he's still sat on his back. 

"I'm not looking, Harry. Promise," Liam says from across the room, probably taking a seat on Zayn's abandoned bed. Such a nice bloke. 

"Not that he'd want to. You look like shit, mate," Zayn says as he finally gets off of Harry, taking the duvet with him to wherever he goes. 

Harry just shoves his face further in the pillow. 

"It's past noon. Get up and shower, put some clothes on and look decent, please," he hears Zayn. "We're gonna get some dinner, see a movie, I don't know."

"Zayn, I'm sure he doesn't want to third wheel," Liam mumbles almost too quietly for Harry to hear. 

"I'm sure I don't care what he wants," Zayn answers, to which Liam just audibly sighs. 

"I have homework," Harry lies, blindly feeling around in his bedside table for some pants. 

"No, you don't. You're moping about a guy you had no chance with from the beginning," Harry can _hear_ him rolling his eyes. 

"Zayn," Liam quietly admonishes. 

"What? He needs to hear it," Zayn says, shrugging as Harry pulls the fabric on and finally sits up on the small bed, glaring at him. 

"'M not moping," he insists. "And I didn't even think of him in that way, just seemed like he needed someone." 

"And that someone had to be you?" Zayn chuckles, perfectly dodging the pillow Harry throws his way. 

Harry stands, deciding to ignore his annoying friend and find something to put on. He's not used to having people around in his dorm anymore as Zayn is never at the dorm and he's been ignoring all of his friends. 

He knows he's being ridiculous, un-admittingly not moping, about someone he knew had a boyfriend and clearly not interested. He knows it. He's not dumb, despite what Zayn says. But he can't help but feel an uncontrollable urge to know Louis. Even if it's just as a friend, or something more. 

He ignores the voice in the back of his head reminding him that Louis has a boyfriend, whom of which he's probably in love with. 

"I'm just trying to help you, mate," Zayn breathes, almost getting too sentimental for Harry's liking. 

"Don't need help. 'M fine," Harry says stubbornly. "Let's go out. For real. Haven't got drunk in a while."

He knows he'll regret it in the morning, but Zayn's right. He'll never say that out loud though. 

 

He's not sure why he suggested going out; maybe because it's been so long since he had that he forgot how much he hates it. It's too loud, there's too many people, and it's just way too warm. Especially when Zayn drags him onto the dance floor. 

Harry downs his fourth shot of whatever Zayn ordered and takes a seat at the bar, politely denying Liam's attempts at getting him to go dance with them. He really doesn't want to see his best friend grind all over his boyfriend. 

"Leave him be, Liam," Zayn slurs at him, draping himself on his shoulders, obviously a little tipsy. Liam flushes. "He's being a sour puss."

Harry stifles a grin. 

"Don't look at me like that, Styles," Zayn suddenly hisses. "I'm immune."

"Don't know what you're on about," Harry laughs. "Go dance with your boyfriend please. I'll be here." 

He waves his hand around his surroundings for emphasis, giving Liam an apologetic smile and shrug before turning toward the bartender and ordering another shot as the couple stumbles off. 

It burns his throat, and he holds in a face as he puts the shot glass down, not wanting to look like some lost kid in a club. 

"Hey, there," someone suddenly says, a small hand then touching his shoulder. 

Harry looks up and is met with a pair of soft brown eyes and a warm smile. 

"Hey, love," Harry says, as smoothly as he possible can with five shots in his system. "Can I help you?"

The girl giggles, covering her mouth with the hand that's not on Harry's shoulder. 

"Just wanted to see if you'd like to dance," she bats her eyelashes at him in a way that would usually make him roll his eyes. But tonight, his brain is too foggy to care. 

"Sure," he stands, offering a hand to her. "I'm Harry."

She takes his hand and gives a dainty shake. 

"I'm Hillary," she bats her eyelashes again and grabs his hand, tugging him to the sweaty dance floor. 

 

The room is spinning slightly when Harry's eyes open; the sun blinding him momentarily as he tries to adjust. The alarm clock says that it's quarter eleven, and it's the first time in a while that he's been up before noon. Yawning, Harry goes to turn over and sleep for probably another couple hours, but is met with a mouth full of blonde hair. 

He frowns, confused at the girl in his bed for just a moment until their naked bodies and partial memories of the previous night become apparent to him. He internally groans and quietly throws his legs over the side of his bed, not wanting to wake the girl next to him. 

In the process of finding his pants and standing to put them on, the dorm room door swings wide open. 

"They're just right under here- hold on, let me get them," Harry hears Zayn say as he walks into the room and toward his bed. Harry expects Liam to walk in behind him, but nearly tumbles over with his pants at his knees when a pair of bright blue eyes meets his. 

"Zayn-" Harry grunts, pulling up his pants as quickly as he can at the same time the girl on his bed stirs. 

"Wha- Oh," Zayn's eyes scan the situation; Harry half naked, the naked girl in his bed and Louis standing in the doorway, flushed and wide-eyed. 

"Well, good morning," the girl beside Harry giggles, reaching her hand out and clutching Harry's bicep. 

"Louis- what are you-?" Harry stammers, green meeting blue as he looks him in the eyes. Louis is visibly bright red, apart from the violent bruise under his right eye, for the second that their eyes meet and then he looks down at the floor and shuffles two steps backward, effectively out of Harry's view. 

"I'm letting him borrow some brushes that I never use. His got broken when he fell down the stairs," Zayn explains, looking at Harry with a look that he can recognise as a hidden glare. It's only ever used when there are other people around them. 

He gives the girl next to Harry a pointed look, and then turns around and feels blindly under his bed. 

"Oh," Harry says dumbly, standing once again, shaking the girl's hand off of him. 

Leave it to Zayn to be up before noon as well and bring the one person Harry has been trying to avoid up to the dorm that he is _rarely_ in. 

Harry walks toward the still slightly ajar door and cautiously peers around it so he can see the beautiful boy behind it. Louis' eyes flicker up to him for a fraction of a second and then over Harry's less than decent appearance for an even smaller amount of time before he looks away again, arms crossed across his chest and holding tightly to his sides. 

Before Harry can say something, Zayn is back and shoves Harry away with such little force that it can barely qualify as a shove. 

"Here, let's get back to the studio," he mutters, handing over the bag of brushes to Louis, who extends a shaky hand to grab it. 

"Thanks," he says so quietly it could almost qualify as a whisper. 

They both turn away from Harry, Zayn looking back for just a second to give him a look, and then walk down the corridor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been AGEEESSSS. but ive added/changed a lot so im just gonna put all that i have right now in this one big chapter. xx

Hot tears fall down Louis' cheeks as he brushes paint onto a canvas with brushes that feel foreign in his small hands. He's alone in the studio, as he had been those few weeks ago when the pretty boy came in and spoke to him about his sketchbook. 

The sun streaming in from the windows is growing less and less with the progressing hours Louis sits at the stool, working on something that he knows he will end up hating and throwing away. That's how he's been for a while; not being able to produce anything that he's loved, or even liked. It's frustrating, to the point of tears.

But right now, the fresh tears are not because of his disappointing paintings, or the harsh hands of his boyfriend, or the violent bruises that had been left in its wake. 

He knew it was a dumb idea, to agree to go with Zayn instead of wait back for him to retrieve the brushes. He knew it was. But, he couldn't help but wonder if the roommate he was speaking about to a friend next to him, was the same guy that spoke to Louis about the Zayn with nice cheekbones and loads of tattoos. 

He couldn't resist in going with him, just to see. He hadn't seen Harry in what felt like so long, and for some reason, he could not help but wish for anything more than to see him after the terrible events of the previous night. 

His hopes were momentarily heightened when he heard Zayn say that his roommate, Harry, should be sleeping. The news gave him some unnatural upsurge of confidence to step cautiously into the dorm room, expecting to see a beautiful Harry fast asleep. 

Not a naked Harry, with a naked girl asleep behind him and on his bed. 

He barely even had time to appreciate how beautiful he looked before the old, familiar feeling released in his chest at the sight. It took everything in him not cry in front of them, Zayn and the very pretty girl in Harry's bed especially. 

But now, alone in the only place he feels a little safe, he can't help it. The old, familiar feeling is still winding its way through his chest as he cries and cries over a boy he knew would never think of Louis in the way he, un-admittedly, thought of him. 

He won't admit it, but Louis had hope in the pretty boy. Hope that blossomed in him over the weeks that Harry avoided him, that maybe, just given time, that he would come back and try to talk to him again. 

Louis had even been practising conversation with his cat, late at night when _he_ was sure to be asleep. He wanted to be sure that the next time Harry had talked to him, he wouldn't mess it up. 

But of course, his hope diminished at the sight of Harry obviously not having any intentions to come talk to Louis, but only to get back into bed with the girl he had more intentions with. 

He was stupid to think that anyone, especially someone as beautiful and nice as Harry, would ever think of Louis in any way other than a boy who cries in the library all the time.   
-

Harry's feet carried him toward the art studio across campus before he even knew where he was going. The air was still cold around him, turning his cheeks and nose a rosy pink colour as the wind bit at them. He clutched the lapels of his coat closer to his body. 

He had a feeling that Louis probably won't want to speak to him, if the look on his face was anything to go by. But his feet don't seem to register that as they still carry him toward the studio that Harry had made Zayn tell him Louis was probably still at once he returned from all of his classes. 

Harry knew Zayn was upset with him, clearly having had a plan in bringing Louis back to the dorm room in which he _knew_ Harry would be in. His plan, however, didn't include a naked blonde in his bed. He was so upset, that he didn't even want to tell Harry where Louis was. 

"Just leave him alone, Harry," he had said. 

Liam added in, saying that whoever this boy was, obviously wanted to speak to Harry or else he wouldn't have accompanied Zayn to the dorm, earning him a glare from his boyfriend. 

Harry pulled open the studio doors, welcoming the warmth as he stepped in and walked the familiar walk to where he knew Louis would be. 

He's not sure why he feels so bad about Louis seeing what he did. Obviously, Harry didn't care for Louis more than a friend as he had a boyfriend. And same for Louis. He is in a relationship, has been for a while according to Zayn. Yet, he couldn't help but feel terrible in a way he would if his own boyfriend or girlfriend had caught him in bed with someone else. 

Harry can't help but smile, sadly, at the endearing image of Louis sitting atop the stool, elegant brush strokes creating beautiful images on the canvas. He looks as beautiful as ever. 

His smile immediately fades when he sees tears rolling down his injured eye and cheeks, small hand reaching up to rub at his nose after a sniffle, brush strokes faltering. 

His heart lurches. 

"Louis," he suddenly says, making his presence known. The boy jumps, brush falling out of his hand as he looks over at Harry, eyes watery and bruised. 

Harry doesn't have time to speak before Louis is getting up from the chair and onto his knees, hands flitting around on the floor looking for the dropped paintbrush. His little hand grabs it, but while standing up, he kicks the legs of the easel, knocking it and the beautiful painting onto the floor. 

Louis flinches at the noise, and then looks, wide-eyed, to the floor. 

"Let me," Harry says, stepping forward and going to reach for the easel and canvas on the floor. He picks up the canvas first; worried about keeping such a beautiful piece of art intact, and sets in the table he's seen Louis set a painting on. 

"Sorry," Louis mumbles from behind Harry as he sets the easel back onto its feet, still in the same spot and eyes wide as if in fear. 

"For what?" Harry smiles, awkwardly. 

"For... You know. Dropping the stuff," he says quietly, not looking to Harry, who is dumbfounded. 

"It was an accident, Lou," the nickname slipping out. "Besides, it's your stuff."

"But you had to pick it up," he says. Harry frowns, confused but decided against saying something. He just clears his throat and shuffles from foot to foot. 

Louis is still standing in the same spot, the same brush in his had for a long moment before turning toward the easel and setting the brush down. 

"What's up?" he says calmly. 

The words sound so strange coming from Louis, almost making Harry laugh because never has he heard something so casual from him. 

But the shake in his voice and the tapping of his foot against the floor tells Harry he should not laugh at all. 

"Um," Harry searches for words. He knows it will be weird to say that he's sorry for something that he's sure Louis doesn't care about, nor that he should even apologize for. But, he can't help but think that that is the real reason he came here. To apologize for something that he knows isn't needed. 

"I just wanted to see what you've been working on," he lies. "Zayn said you'd be here."

Louis eyes flash to him quickly, a small crease between his brows. 

"Where's your girlfriend?" he asks quickly, still frowning at Harry in a way that he really tries to not find adorable. 

The question ignites false hope into his heart. 

"I don't have a girlfriend," he says slowly. "She was a friend."

Harry can't even remember her name. 

The look on Louis' face is skeptical, an expression he has yet to see Louis bear. It's refreshing, knowing that this beautiful boy is capable of feeling more than sadness. 

"A friend," he repeats. If Harry didn't know any better, he would think that he is about to laugh. He's never seen him laugh. 

"Yeah," he smiles, trying not to mention the fact that it's not really normal to have friends be naked in your bed. But he can't bear to see the same look on Louis' face as this morning. 

"Oh," Louis says, looking at his now canvas-less easel. Harry feels the need to make this conversation last longer. 

"What happened to your brushes?" he blurts out, nearly shouting at his eagerness to keep him talking. His volume makes Louis jump. 

"Pardon?" he asks quietly, fingers tense on his thighs. 

"Your brushes," Harry says, gentler this time. "You had to borrow Zayn's. Why?"

Harry can't recall the reason Zayn had given him on why Louis needed his brushes, though he knows he must have said it. He was a little more focused on Louis. 

"I, uh..." he stammers nervously, hands running up and down his jean clad thighs. "I fell. Down the stairs."

It's then that Harry really notices the bruises under Louis' right eye and the barely scabbed over cut on his lip. 

"That's what happened to your face?" He doesn't mean to sound rude, but he can't help it. The bruises and cuts on his beautiful unsettles him. 

"What? Oh," his fingers absently touch his lip. "Yeah. That's what happened."

Harry can't help but feel a little skeptical. He's had his few share of falls down steps, and none of them led in a black eye and a busted lip. 

But it's none of his business. 

"And you broke your brushes? On the fall down?" he tries to clarify. He sees Louis' eyes flash with an emotion he can't recognize. 

"Yeah, on the fall down," he confirms, nodding. 

"You're okay though, right?" Harry asks softly, taking a step toward Louis, ignoring the compulsion to run his fingers gently across his beautiful face. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says quickly, taking a step back and then turning to look at the table containing the canvas. 

Harry sighs, knowing that he made Louis uncomfortable by taking a step toward him. He needs to remember that he has a boyfriend and is definitely not interested. 

"That's really beautiful," Harry tries again, as Louis' little finger traces through the almost dry lavender paint on the bottom of the canvas. 

"No it's not," Louis suddenly barks, much to his and Harry's surprise. 

Harry looks at him, shocked, and sees that he's tense and looks at Harry once through the corner of his eyes. 

"I think it is," he insists, eyes still glued to Louis. 

"It's really not," Louis sighs, more to himself than Harry as he picks up the small canvas and dumps it into the large trash can in the back of the room. 

"You really shouldn't toss it," Harry mumbles, utterly confused by the whole situation. "It's beautiful."

Louis just shakes his head and huffs out a breath, running his hands through his tousled hair. Harry wonders if it feels as feathery and soft as it looks. 

Louis almost forgets that Harry is still there, eyes watering at his own failure and inability to produce anything that's worth something. And then Harry clears his throat, making him jump. 

"Do you want to get coffee?" he hears Harry ask. 

It takes a while for the words to process through Louis' brain; too confused and emotional to really understand why he's still here and what he just asked. 

Louis turns around, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes still watery as he looks to the pretty boy standing in front of him with a small, nervous smile on his face. 

Before he knows what he's doing, or why he's doing it; Louis nods.  
-  
Louis' foot taps against the hardwood floor of the coffee shop here on campus, eyes glancing out toward the darkening sky through the windows, searching for _him_ ; though he knows that he's at home, waiting for Louis. 

It'll only be fifteen more minutes before Louis will get a call. 

"Here you go," Harry is suddenly in front of Louis, making him jump as he sets his tea on the table. He smiles at Louis almost apologetically before sitting down across from him, taking a sip of his warm drink. 

"Thanks," Louis says quietly, looking down at the large cup full of black tea, swirling his little finger around it, welcoming the blinding burn. 

"I'm sorry, had I known you prefer tea, I wouldn't have suggested a coffee place," Harry smiles gently, head dipping to try to catch Louis' eyes. It works. 

"No, it's okay. I like it here," he says honestly, eyes wandering around the small shop again. It's dimly lit at the table Harry directed Louis to; small, squishy love seats surrounding them as some song Louis has never heard plays over the aroma of coffee. 

"I think it's my favorite place on campus," Harry muses, sighing as he takes off his coat and places it gently on his lap. Louis clutches his sweater closer to his body. 

"I love the library," Louis blurts out. He half expects Harry to yell at him; angry that he spoke when he had not been asked to. But, the small smile on his beautiful face that Louis sees as his eyes hesitantly flit over to him makes Louis slightly relax. 

"I love it, too," he says. "But I prefer the music that plays here."

Louis' fingers lift the hem of his sweater on his wrist to check the time, heart rate picking up at the realization of what will happen to him tonight for his being here. He knows _he_ won't assume Louis was with someone, because no one would ever like Louis enough to spend time with him. But that doesn't mean his anger will lessen. 

"Louis?" Harry's voice, once again gives a flood of relief throughout Louis' ever panicking body. 

Their eyes meet.

"What's wrong?" he asks, frowning a little bit. Louis is confused for a split second, until he feels a tear drop onto the sleeve of his sweater. He spends a lot of his time crying that he doesn't even realize when he is anymore. 

"Oh," he wipes at his eyes. "Nothing."

"You always cry," Harry says lamely, sitting back in his chair. He didn't say it in a mocking or annoyed way, only in a way of observation. Like stating a fact. "Why?"

Louis just looks at him, unsure of how to even answer or react. No one has ever asked why he's upset the way that Harry does. As a matter of fact, no one has ever talked to Louis in the way that Harry does. 

"I'm okay," he tells him, wanting nothing more than to remove the frown from his beautiful face. Nothing is more beautiful than when Harry is smiling. Except for his boyfriend, of course. 

"I don't think you are," Harry insists, hand reaching out as if to touch Louis' that is resting atop the table. Louis' fingers twitch, as if wanting to flinch away from the impending touch, but he stays put. He then realizes that he wishes nothing more than to feel Harry's hand on his. 

Harry's hand lays next to his instead, sighing once again and looking down at Louis' little hand. 

"I really am," Louis tells him, fingers twitching again. He really wishes Harry would touch him, but knowing that if he did he wouldn't know what to do and it would be just like that time in the library. Louis knows that he will never be able to experience any type of physical contact like that ever again. 

"What do you want to do with your life?" Harry suddenly asks, removing his hand entirely from the table. Louis' eyes follow, watching as his thumb and forefinger tug at his bottom lip. Louis shifts in his seat. 

"Art," he answers simply. He takes a swig of his tea, welcoming the burn in his throat. It's been a long time since Louis has talked this much, and the tea is soothing his scratchy throat. 

"Art? Like do you want to teach, or just do it yourself?" Harry pries, wanting to know more and more about this mysterious, beautiful boy. 

"Anything," he shrugs, looking down to Harry's folded hands.

"Anything that has to do with art?" he clarifies. 

Louis nods. 

"How long have you loved doing it?" Harry asks him softly, coming to the realization that if he asks Louis about art, he will keep on talking. 

"As long as I can remember," he says, almost distractedly. "My mum has all of my drawing still hung on the fridge."

Louis' lips lift up to a smile at his own words, and Harry can feel all of the air leave his lungs at the sight. 

"Amazing," Harry breathes out, eagerly trying to keep the boy talking. "My mum still has all of my old composition notebooks full of all my stories that I wrote back in primary and secondary school."

Louis' smile fades but doesn't leave entirely, his eyes still twinkling with it. Harry feels short of breath. 

"Is that what you write?" he asks slowly, carefully, as if trying to annunciate his words. "Stories?"

Harry, shaking his head of thoughts of Louis, chuckles. 

"Not so much anymore," he says. "Poetry mostly. Sounds a little lame, I know." 

Harry flushes, eyes searching Louis' face for a change in expression but is only met with the same small smile that takes his breath away. 

"I was never good at poetry in school. I was never good at any subject in school besides art, honestly," he tells Harry, as if wanting to make Harry feel better. "Passed nearly ever class with a grade just above failing."

Harry smiles fondly, hand yearning to hold his again. 

"Funny, because art was the only class I ever failed. They told me to stick to _anything else_ ," he says, laughing at himself a little bit. 

Louis snorts, and it's the closest thing Harry has heard to a laugh from him. It's enough to take his breath away once again. 

"I could teach you," he says, voice suddenly very soft. His head snaps down as if to avoid Harry's eye and his hands leave the table, folding onto his lap. Harry can feel his leg shaking beneath the table again. 

He can't help but feel his heart jolt at the thought of spending time with Louis in order for him to teach him to draw, essentially. 

"I would love it if you taught me," he says earnestly, waiting for Louis to look up at him to see the honestly upon his face. 

Louis looks back up slowly, lips turned up into a small, relieved smile. 

"You could teach me to write poetry," he adds eagerly, voice full of the most excitement Harry has ever heard from him. He tries to contain his fond facial expression, not wanting to embarrass the boy. 

"Sounds like a deal," he tells him, hand stretching out onto the table again. Louis can't help but look at the hand, his own fingers twitching in his lap at the newfound urge to touch him. He clasps harder onto his hands, just at the same moment he feels the phone in his back pocket begin to vibrate. His stomach plummets. 

"I have to go," Louis says quickly, standing up so fast from the chair that it nearly tips over. His face flushes a deep red at the scene, hoping no one pays more attention to him. Harry frowns but stands, too. 

"Do you need a ride?" Harry asks, confused at the sudden change in Louis' mood; he's back to the jumpy and flustered Louis he first met. He flinches suddenly when the bell on the door rings and a girl with her arms full of books comes tumbling in. 

"Um," Louis hands fidgets with the hem of his jumper as he looks from the girl back to Harry and then back to the door. "No. My ride is here."

And then he stumbles his way out of the shop, not bothering to say goodbye or offer any type of explanation; just leaving behind Harry and his cold tea.   
-

Harry's just finishing up the buttons on his shirt when he shoots Zayn a wary look; hoping that he'll feel bad and not want to make Harry go out tonight. Zayn just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, turning around to join Liam on the small double bed. 

"Harry stop being a baby," he says, picking up his leg and throwing it over Liam's thighs, moving his foot around until Liam understands what he wants and begins to tie his shoe. 

"I don't _like_ going out," Harry moans, scrunching the black sleeves up to his forearms. Liam chuckles. 

"You do, you just want to sit here and hope Louis will stop by," Zayn says. Suddenly, Liam frowns. 

"Louis?" He asks. Both Harry and Zayn look to him; he's never taken part of Zayn's regular teasing of Harry on his mysterious crush. 

"Yeah, that's his name," Zayn shrugs, still looking confusedly at his boyfriend. Liam suddenly looks weary. 

"Tomlinson?" He prompts. Harry groans. 

"What? Do you like him, too?" Zayn shoots a glare at Harry. 

"No," Liam sighs. "It's just-" 

He seems uncomfortable, like he doesn't want to say what he's about to. Zayn is suddenly very worried. 

"What's wrong?" Zayn's never been the jealous type, but he's also mentioned before that if he were to be jealous, it would have to be of someone as good looking as Louis. Harry had instantly agreed. 

"Nothing," he assures his boyfriend. "Well. I mean, not nothing. But it's just that I know Louis; he's my neighbour."

Harry blinks. 

"Okay?" He says, wishing that Liam would just get to the point. Liam clears his throat. 

"Um. Well, he and his boyfriend are quite... loud."

The sudden thought of Louis and his boyfriend being loud in bed makes Harry want to vomit; he never really allows himself to remember that Louis is in a relationship. 

"Liam," Zayn pats his arm. "I'm all about getting Harry to move on, but is disclosing the volume in which he and his boyfriend have sex really the way to go?"

Liam frowns, confused for a second, before he shakes his head. 

"No, that's not what I meant," he says quickly, trying to piece together what he is trying to say. "Last year I- I would always hear a lot of yelling. And... crying. So I would like, I would try to go over and see if everything was okay. Whenever I had the chance to. It was always his boyfriend to answer, and to assure me that everything was alright. It was all a bit odd. And one week, it was so quiet. And I knew that someone had to be home, I could hear the occasional footsteps, you know? But for some reason, I just felt like I had to go over. To see if everything was alright, you know? And I did. I knocked and knocked for like fifteen minutes and then finally I was just like, let me just see if the doors open? And it was. And-" he cuts himself off suddenly, frowning and looking away from the curious looks of Harry and Zayn. 

"And what?" Harry asks, concerned for the ending of Liam's story. Liam visibly gulps. 

"He tried to kill himself," he whispers. Harry feels his knees go weak. "I called the ambulance and they said I'd found him in just the right amount of time."

The silence that engulfed the room was deafening. 

"Why have you never told me this before?" Zayn asks, voice heavy with emotion. Liam shrugs. 

"He asked me not to. He asked me not to tell anyone, to never bring it up again. I'm pretty sure he never even called his boyfriend. I visited him in the hospital while he was there for a couple days, and he was finally able to come home just within a day of when his boyfriend came back," he sounds breathless. "I haven't really seen much of him since, but I still hear the yelling. I'll pop by occasionally; just to see if Louis' okay."

Suddenly, a lot of things about Louis make sense to Harry; and he feels the sudden urge to find him and hold him, and tell him everything's gonna be okay. He gulps before he finds it in himself to ask the question he's always internally wondered. 

"Does his boyfriend... you know?" He can't find it within himself to actually say it, but he knows that Liam understands. 

"I think so," he nods sadly. "The walls are pretty thin, and when I asked him about it in the hospital, he said he was fine and he'd take care of it. But, on the rare occasions I do see him, he always has a fresh black eye or busted lip."

Harry slumps back into the small love seat he and Zayn have shoved in the back corner, swallowing the lump in his throat as everything falls into place in his mind; Louis' aversion to physical contact, his nervousness, his absentminded fear of displeasing Harry. 

"We have to do something," Zayn suddenly says. Harry's eyes flick up to him, and he's sure he's never seen this much anger in him before. 

"I don't think there's anything we can do that won't make it worse, love," Liam says sadly. "I've tried. I talked to the nurses at the hospital and they said Louis would have to be the one to file the report. And she said it wouldn't be likely for Louis to do that on his own; at least for a long while."

Liam seems to have put a lot of thought into this, and Harry is just now barely wrapping his brain around all of what he has just been told. 

"Nah, fuck that. We should go talk to his boyfriend ourselves," Zayn spits. 

"And what are we supposed to do, Zayn?" Liam suddenly raises his voice, causing Harry's eyes to go wide. He's never heard him shout before. 

"It's three against one, Liam," Zayn glares at his boyfriend. "We can't just pretend like we don't know what's going on."

Harry isn't sure if Liam knows yet, but Zayn's older sister just recently revealed to their family that her newly ex-husband was violent with her for nearly eight years. Zayn didn't take it very well. 

"Babe, we can't just start beating him up. All that's gonna do is lead him to believe Louis told us, and who knows what he'd do to Louis if that's what he were to believe," Liam shakes his head, exasperated. "We'd just make it worse."

Zayn is just about to argue back when Harry finally speaks up. 

"He's right, Zayn," his voice sounds scratchy. Zayn's wide, glossy eyes find him. Harry can tell he is trying to convey an unspoken message, something that Harry should obviously already know; confirming his thought that Liam doesn't know about his sister yet. 

Harry just nods sympathetically at Zayn. 

"I know," he says to him. "But Liam's right. You must know that. The only way for it to really stop, is if Louis was the one to do something about it."

Zayn blinks at Harry, eyebrows knitting in frustration before he lets out a heavy, defeated sigh. 

"Well Harry, maybe you can talk to Louis," he suggests, wiping under his eyes so quickly that Harry can't be sure he actually did it. He frowns. 

"What am I supposed to say?" Harry's voice cracks toward the end of his question, panic coursing through his veins at the idea of ever bringing this up to Louis; terrified of the reaction he would get. He doesn't want Louis to be unhappy, and he really doesn't want him to stop speaking to him just because Harry knows what is obviously Louis' darkest secret. 

"Just be his friend," Liam suggests. "He doesn't have many, as far as I know."

Harry lets out a shaky breath, relieved. He figures he could do that; it would be easy enough. He already likes Louis, so it's not like he has to pretend to want to be his friend. 

"Yeah," he says, nodding to himself. "Yeah, I could do that."  
-

The wind is biting at Harry's cheeks as he leaves the warmth of the campus bookstore, taking long strides in the direction of his dorm building. The book in his hand holds only slight interest for him until he hears a loud noise from beside him, eyes flicking in the direction out of instinct. 

He sees Louis, slightly shivering for a moment before he slowly bends down to collect his books from the floor. Harry's heart skips a beat as he immediately makes his way over; it's been a week since he last saw him and only a couple days since Liam told him what he knew. 

"I got it," Harry offers, quickly reaching down and collecting all of his books in one hand before Louis had fully made it to the floor. He seems to be moving carefully, as if he's sore. The thought makes Harry's blood boil. 

Louis looks sheepishly at Harry, cheeks flushed from either the cold or the embarrassment; but, Harry finds it endearing anyways. 

"Where's your coat?" Harry asks as he hands the pile of books to Louis, watching him slightly stagger under the weight of it. Louis just shrugs a little. 

"I think I left it at home," he says quietly, still obviously trying to get used to conversation with Harry. He shivers again at the same moment Harry removes his coat and takes the pile of books back from him to hand him the item of clothing. Louis eyes it sceptically, little hands rubbing together slightly before looking up at Harry. 

"I'm okay," he says, trying to hide the chattering of his teeth as another gust of wind comes, pulling the length of his jumper over his hands. 

"Take it, please. I don't want you getting sick or anything," Harry offers him his best smile, holding out the coat further. It takes a moment, but Louis finally sighs and takes it, putting it on and clutching it close to his body. 

Harry is overwhelmed with the feelings that overcome him when he sees Louis in his favourite coat; it's too big on him, but he looks so very cute. Harry has to stop himself from staring. 

"That's better, isn't it?" He smiles softly, hoping his calm tone will ease Louis' nerves. The gesture pays off slightly as he sees Louis visibly relax, just a tiny bit, before nodding. 

"But now you'll be cold," he says, almost sadly. Harry just shakes his head. 

"I don't mind. Where are you headed?" he asks him, still clutching his book and Louis' books in his hands. Louis shrugs again. 

"I'm not sure," he says quietly, brows furrowed. "I don't have anymore classes, but my ride doesn't get here until half past six, usually." 

His voice sounds scratchy, and it's barely then that Harry notices the slight bruising underneath his left eye and his swollen bottom lip. His heart lurches. 

"I was thinking of skiving off my classes today," Harry says. "Wanna come hang out in my dorm?"

The offer sounds a little forward, but he can't think of anything else. Louis rarely seems comfortable in public places, and he's pretty sure the library is closed again. 

Friends hang out in dorms; and Zayn said that it would be best for Harry to befriend him. 

Louis opens his mouth and closes it several times before he clears his throat. 

"Um," he says, face flushing again. Harry suddenly feels awful for making him feel uncomfortable. 

"I'm sorry, we don't have to," he gushes suddenly, wishing he hadn't even mentioned it in the first place. He has to remember that Louis has a boyfriend- a shitty one- but a boyfriend, nonetheless. 

"No," Louis shakes his head, quickly. "No, I want to. But- um. Is Zayn g-gonna be there?" 

He stutters slightly, and Harry can't help but feel completely endeared. 

"No, he's at his boyfriends house this whole weekend," he says. "But if you don't want to be alone with me, I totally get that, too."

Harry feels himself begin to flush, completely thrown by this whole conversation. He's never had a problem chatting up anyone, but Louis just makes him so nervous; he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable or do anything he doesn't want to. He just wants him to be happy. 

"No," Louis assures him again, lips slightly pouting as if frustrated that he isn't able to say exactly what he's trying to say. "No, that's not it."

Harry sighs, relieved. He doesn't wish for Louis to be scared of him, as he sure that he's scared of mostly everyone. 

"It'll be fun," he says, continuing to walk in the direction of his building, shortening his strides to match Louis' as they both make their way through the campus.   
-

As Harry flicks the light on in their dorm, he immediately regrets suggesting they come up here. 

"I'm so sorry for the mess," he gushes, quickly making his way to Zayn's side of the room and picking up all of his clothes and trash that he's left behind in his short amount of time here for the past two days. 

Louis stands uncomfortably by the door, shifting his weight on his legs as he watches Harry. 

"It's okay," he says quietly, nervously looking out the window on the far end of the room, as if _he_ could possibly see him through it. 

"Zayn's never here," Harry laughs, breathless, as he picks up his last bit of clothing on the floor. "And when he is, he just loves to leave a mess."

Louis takes a look over to Harry's side of the room, noticing the vast differences in Harry's side and Zayn's side. Harry has shelves full of what seems to be books, and even more shelves below those full of CD's and a few records. His eyes search for a record player, finally seeing one in the far back corner of the room, sitting atop a dresser with a record already inside of it. 

"Do you listen to records?" Harry asks, noticing Louis' attention to the player. He makes his way over to it, setting the needle down carefully. 

"I've always wanted one," he admits. He shivers at the memory of the time his mum sent him one with a Richie Valens record taped to the top of it for his birthday two years ago. _He_ smashed it before Louis could even open it. 

A woman begins to croon softly, the low music easing the tension in the room only slightly. Louis feels his shoulders relax. 

"Zayn says I'm full of shit, but I think the music sounds way better off of a record," Harry says, plopping down on the small twin size bed, bringing his knees up to his chest. He looks up at Louis, and he feels his heart skip a beat. He really is beautiful. 

Louis shifts uncomfortably again before taking a small step toward the bed and sitting at the very edge of it. He's never been alone with a boy that wasn't his boyfriend and he isn't sure he can handle too close of a proximity to anyone. 

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Harry asks quietly as he sees Louis sitting as far away from him as the bed will allow. Louis winces a little bit as he feels the weight of the bed move but then sighs. 

"Yes," he answers honestly, keeping his eyes on the floor as his hands rub nervously together. "But it's not just you."

Harry feels a little relieved at that.

"Can I ask why?" he asks, already knowing the answer. He can't begin to comprehend the feelings that come with being emotionally and physically abused in a relationship, and the thought of it makes his heart lurch for Louis in a way that he hasn't felt in a long time. 

Louis breath sounds shaky as he inhales and exhales for a moment, bringing a leg up beneath him and clutching onto his sides as if he's out of breath. 

"It's complicated," he shrugs, shaking his head only slightly before finally looking up at Harry. His bright eyes make Harry feel winded. 

"I'm here for you, you know. If you ever want... a friend, or something," Harry says, biting back the sourness that wants to come out at his use of the word friend. He feels himself shift closer to Louis, close enough that the warmth of Louis' knee is tangible through the denim of Harry's jeans. 

Louis eyes glaze over and Harry fights back the urge to hold him when he sees his lip wobble. 

"Thank you," he says earnestly, fighting back the tears that always seem to threaten to spill out. 

Louis isn't sure why he's here, or why he's so close to crying, or why he doesn't want to leave; but he does know that he's in too deep to truly listen to the voice in his head that keeps reminding him that he should stay away from Harry.   
-

It's freezing outside when Louis quickly makes his way across campus to the parking lot of the west campus. He keeps his head down, avoiding any and all eye contact with the students around him as he finally sees the familiar white car. His brain rakes through the possibilities of what could go wrong tonight; about what he could do or what he has done to piss him off. Within only five seconds, he finds ways in his head to avoid them all, only wishing for time to go by faster so it could be morning and he could be going to work and Louis could be going back to school. 

It's silent as he slides into the car, barely closing the door before the engine is turned on and they're driving away. 

He can immediately feel the tension; he feels his heart rate pick up at the likely abuse that he will have to endure tonight before _he_ gets too tired and falls asleep. He clenches his fists on his thighs, clearing his throat. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow night. To Brighton,” Adam says. Louis doesn’t look directly at him, but turns his head in his direction to show that he is listening. He also tries very hard to hide his emotions at the thought of him being gone for a while. He hasn’t left town since Louis’ accident. “Melissa is getting married. I’ll be gone for a week. You’ll need to walk to and from school, and don’t even think about calling and asking someone for a ride.”

His voice is stern, and his last demand makes him jump at the sudden raise in it. He holds his composure, nodding and looking back ahead to the road, relishing in the relief that washes through his body at the possibility of an actual good night sleep while he is away at his youngest sister’s wedding.

His family never asks about Louis anymore; he’s sure that Adam always makes up a lie about why he can’t come to the family events. He’s sure that his busted up face will surely cause too much attention. Although he and Melissa used to be close at the beginning of his relationship, he’s sure she won’t call to ask why he won’t be attending. The thought only makes him a little sad; after years of dodging calls and holidays, he isn’t sure that he has any friends at all. 

Except Harry. 

The thought, in such proximity of Adam, makes him involuntarily wince; as if he could possibly hear what he’s thinking.   
-

He curls up more in the blanket covering his naked body, flinching only slightly at the stiffness he feels throughout, avoiding the side of his face that is currently throbbing. 

He sees from the corner of his eye, Adam gathering his things from the foyer, patting his jacket pockets as if making sure he’s got everything. The dim lighting coming in from the eastward window is enough to make Louis’ spirits lift; signifying that Adam is _leaving_ for a whole week and a half. 

Everything that happened last night seems to have been worth it so long as Louis gets a week and a half away from him. 

“I’m leaving,” he barks, making Louis jump. He doesn’t say anything, just sighs in relief when he hears the front door slam shut and the deadbolt being locked from the outside. 

Relief rushes through his body, an emotion he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever, as he relaxes against the sofa and feels his eyes grow heavy.


	4. Chapter 4

Louis has a bit more pep in his step as he gets ready for his class. It’s a Friday which means the studio is open late tonight and it’s not like he has to worry about being home at a certain time. Just that thought has him almost smiling as he slips his final layer on- his favourite blue jumper. He tries not to let his mind wander to Harry, the dull ache throughout his whole body reminding him not to, but he can’t help but think about the conversations they would have without having Louis worry absentmindedly about Adam calling. 

He sighs heavily, looking at his made up face in the mirror, before leaving the cold bathroom and heading out into the even colder outside.   
-

It’s snowing a little as Louis steps into the Allen Hall, making the familiar walk down the corridor to the studio, clutching his supplies to his side as he avoids eye contact with the people around him. He’s sure they must recognise him by now- he recognises some of them. But he’s also sure that his antisocial behaviour is what prevents any of them to attempt to start a conversation with him. Of course he wishes he had friends, but he’s sure no one would ever truly like him. 

The thought makes him think of Harry, and the idea that he may possibly like him makes his mood lift. But, in the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up. 

He mechanically sets his supplies down on the metal worktop in the back of the class, shifting in the switch so the pendent lights shine brighter than the usual dim lighting in the white studio. The white-grey floorboards nearly blind Louis as he looks up to open the blinds on the large windows. 

“Hey,” someone says softly. The noise still makes Louis jump, the heel of his shoe slipping on the hardwood and making him tumble toward a tall chair by the windows. 

“Fuck,” Louis huffs out as he sees Harry standing shyly in the corner of the room, hands out as if to shush Louis’ startled frame. Louis holds a hand over his heart dramatically, breath still coming in sharply over the fright. He still isn’t used to anyone trying to communicate with him. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, walking slowly over to where Louis is. “I wasn’t sure how to bring attention to myself without startling you, but it looks like I did it anyways.”

He laughs, and he noise makes Louis’ heart flutter. He finally is able to get a handle on himself and pull the curtains over, the snow slightly sticking to the windowpane as wintry-afternoon sun streams in. 

“You look nice,” Harry says as he sits atop the worktop with Louis’ supplies on it. Louis feels his cheeks burn, eyes darting down to his dingy shoes. 

“You do too,” Louis mumbles, not even really registering what Harry was wearing but sure that he looks stunning nonetheless. His brain absentmindedly worries about his thoughts, so he changes the subject. “What are you doing here?”

He looks up at Harry, cheeks still flaming as he fumbles with the sleeves of his jumper, feeling his stomach churn nervously. Harry cheeks turn rosey, and Louis thinks that there’s nothing more beautiful. 

“Zany said I might find you here,” he shrugs. “Wanted to see you.”

Louis ducks his head again, unsure of what to say or what Harry even means behind that statement. He turns toward the easel, grabbing a blank canvas from the cabinet next to it and sets it down before taking a seat on the stool. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry suddenly blurts. Louis flinches slightly at the sudden outburst. “I know you have a boyfriend... it’s not very polite of me to- you know, be here.”

Louis blinks at him, hands frozen above his brushes as he thinks. 

“I- did I?”

He can’t recall ever bringing up his having a boyfriend to Harry, can’t even think of anything that would have given that away. His mouth dries and his heart plummets only slightly at the realisation that Harry knows he has a boyfriend and can’t possibly think of him as anything more than a friend. 

“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” Harry tries to clarify. Louis can’t seem to find his voice again so he nods, not seeming to help the sadness that overcomes him. Harry grimaces. 

“Yeah. Zayn told me,” he explains. Louis just nods again, eyes turning back toward the canvas with a heavy heart. He knew it was too good to be true to imagine that Harry might actually be interested him in that way; he knew he was too shy to ever really flirt back with Harry if he ever did try to try something. But for some reason, knowing that the possibility is out of the window hurts a lot more than he expected. 

“Sorry for bringing it up... is that not something you like to talk about?” Harry asks. Louis can feel his body warmth behind him and he feels his breath become uneven. “Don’t go all quiet on me again.”

Louis turns in his stool at that, wincing back at the sudden proximity of the two. Harry notices and takes a step back with an apologetic look. 

“I don’t like to talk about it,” he confirms, clearing his throat a little. Talking this much is still hard on his vocal chords. Harry frowns sadly, as if he could possibly know why Louis doesn’t like talking about it. 

“Okay,” he says simply. “We won’t talk about it then. As long as that means we can talk about anything else?”

Harry smiles warmly at him, making Louis heart flutter again- a feeling still foreign to him, yet one he wishes to keep on feeling. 

“Sure,” Louis answers with a slight smile, not even trying to compare to the bright one that Harry is wearing. He knows nothing can compare to that. “Do you want to watch me paint?”

Harry nods excitedly, carefully pulling up a stool far enough away that Louis doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He can’t help but notice the way Harry appreciates his need for personal space and little to no loud noises. 

Harry mostly speaks as Louis paints from the sketches in his sketchbook; telling Louis about his day and which novel they’re reading in his English Literature class. Louis adds in when he begins to discuss his favourite authors, saying which ones he also favours and which works are ones he always goes back to. Other than that, he listens and nods and sometimes chuckles but Harry doesn’t seem to mind- lively keeping up the conversation like Louis is participating just as he is. 

It’s when the sun starts to set and the snow starts to pick up that Harry grows quiet, the silence- though usually something Louis relishes in- making Louis feel a little sad that his time with Harry is probably ending soon. He sighs as he looks at his half done work; an abstract forest that he was sure would look better. He exhales sadly. 

“It’s looking amazing, Louis,” Harry gushes, eyes wide as if in awe at the mess of oil colours on a canvas. Louis scoffs, taking a step off the stool to grab he canvas and set it out to dry so he could finish it later. 

“You always do that,” Harry shakes his head as Louis gathers his things, starting to stand too. Louis looks questioningly at him. “You always regard your work as if it’s not good.”

Louis shrugs. 

“Because I don’t think it is,” he says quietly. His throat really is starting to feel too dry. 

“You’re insane,” Harry laughs, shaking his head again before clearing his throat. “Hey, did you wanna get a coffee or something?”

Louis freezes, momentarily panicking before he realises that he doesn’t have to be home at a certain time; that no one will call him telling him they are waiting for him. He breathes out. 

“I don’t have any money,” he says, flushing once again. Adam didn’t leave any money with him and hardly any food at the apartment; the thought suddenly makes Louis wonder on how he’s going to eat for the next week. 

“It’s on me,” Harry assures him. Louis opens his mouth to protest but Harry just shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”  
-

Louis shivers involuntarily as they step out into the light snow toward the coffee shop, and Harry has to fight the urge to wrap his arm around him. He looks over at him, watching Louis’ cheeks pink up as the cold bites away at them and he can’t help but think how adorable he looks. 

He reminds himself that he has to stop having these thoughts about him. It was pretty clear today that no matter how shitty his boyfriend may be, Louis still is not ready to leave him, let alone for Harry. The thought makes Harry’s heart fall. 

He holds the door open for Louis as they get to the same coffee shop from last time, breath hitching at the small smile Louis gives him as he steps into the warmth, heading for the same table as last time as well. 

“I’m gonna order. You want the same thing?” He asks, feeling around for his wallet in his back pocket. Louis nods, blowing into his hands as he takes a seat.   
-

They talk- well, Harry mostly- but Louis seems interested and offers his occasional input or answer to Harry’s question as he reluctantly finishes the soup and black tea Harry bought him. He seems cautious as he does it, but Harry chooses to not pay attention to it, hoping that that will make him less uncomfortable with the situation and it does seem to help since he finished both. Harry smiles happily. 

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” Harry asks, taking another sip of his coffee. He notices that Louis’ foot is tapping on the floor again, but he doesn’t seem as jumpy. 

“No, probably just stay home,” he sips his tea, hoping to soothe his throat. “I’m alone for the next week.”

He’s not sure why he adds that bit in, but he feels his stomach twist his disclosure of that information. 

Harry’s eyebrows raise slightly.

“There’s a bonfire at my buddy’s house tomorrow at 8,” he says. Louis’ heart leaps in what that he doesn’t recognise at what he thinks Harry might offer. “You should come?”

Harry flushes, fearing the rejection that is bound to come from his offer to Louis. He knows it’ll be too much for him, but at the information that his boyfriend is for some reason gone for the next week, gives him the idea that maybe he could try to show Louis a good time; to maybe open his eyes to speak to someone about his boyfriend. He also wouldn’t mind spending extra time with him.

Louis’ mouth opens and closes several times before his heart rate settles and he can think clearly. He, rationally, knows that Adam would never know. But, irrationally, he can’t help but think of the worst and he blanches at the idea of what would happen if he did find out. The thought makes his palms sweaty. 

“You don’t have to,” Harry gushes, absentmindedly setting his hand atop Louis’. Louis winces back at the touch, mind flashing to what could happen to him as he clutches his hand to his chest as he calms his breathing. “I’m sorry.”

Harry sits back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. He has to remember to keep his hands to himself; that the normal physical contact is not something he can do around Louis if he wishes to keep him comfortable around him. He curses himself in his head for being so careless. 

“No, it’s okay,” Louis breathlessly assures him, still mulling over Harry’s proposition in his head. 

“I know you probably don’t want to spend that much time with me,” Harry jokes in order to lighten the mood. “Bonfires are lame anyways.”

He feels a little defeated despite all the time he spend with Louis today.

Louis goes to speak again but nothing comes out. He clears his throat again. 

“Are you ready?” Harry asks suddenly, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. Louis can’t help but feel guilty; like his inability to be normal and do normal college kid things is holding Harry back from a friendship that he is, for some reason, trying to make with him. 

Louis feels tears spring into his eyes as he nods and stands too, following Harry out into the snow. 

They walk for a while in silence, Louis just following and letting silent tears fall as he again thinks of how everything is his fault and that it’s freezing outside and he is going to have to walk home for thirty minutes in the cold. 

He can’t keep his sobs silent anymore, accidentally letting one out, causing Harry to skid to a stop at his side. 

“Hey,” he shushes, hand reaching out as if to touch him. Louis flinches back from it, only making himself cry harder as he sees more things wrong with him; he wants nothing more than to be normal and not wince at Harry’s touch, he wants to be able to be held and told everything is okay even though he knows it’s not. He also wishes he wasn’t having this breakdown in front of the nicest person he has ever met, knowing that this is just going to push him away. 

“Please don’t cry, I’m sorry,” Harry apologises, voice cracking. His instincts are to take him in his arms but he folds them to his chest instead, trying to make eye contact with him as he gushes more apologies. 

Hearing him profusely apologise makes Louis feel worse; he is the best person in the world and Louis can’t even fully appreciate him because of how fucked up he is. 

“You didn’t- d-do any-anything,” he splutters, finding it within himself to stop his sobbing but unable to stop the tears. Harry looks so pained, unable to understand what’s wrong and unable to truly help. His expression breaks Louis’ heart as he realises no one can truly help him. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis cries, turning away swiftly and walking through the snow.   
-


End file.
